


Intrigued

by SilentGhostWriter2017



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artist Harry Potter, BAMF Harry Potter, BAMF Hermione Granger, Biracial Harry Potter, Black Hermione Granger, Bottom Harry Potter, Character Death, Cold-Hearted Harry Potter, Colourist Hermione Granger, Dark Harry Potter, Dark Hermione Granger, Dom/sub Undertones, Draco Malfoy Bashing, Drama, Dursley Family Dies (Harry Potter), F/M, Fluff, Harry Potter is Not a Horcrux, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Homophobia, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Minor Character Death, Misogyny, Multi, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Polyamory Negotiations, Possessive Behavior, Powerful Hermione Granger, Protective Marcus Flint, Protective Viktor Krum, Racism, Rare Pairings, Romance, Ron Weasley Bashing, Severus Snape Bashing, Slytherin Harry Potter, Top Marcus Flint, Torture, Violent Harry Potter, a warning to readers, de-aged character, these troubling topics will be discussed throughout the book
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28170792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentGhostWriter2017/pseuds/SilentGhostWriter2017
Summary: It was the greatest shock for the entire population of Hogwarts, students and teachers alike, when the Boy-Who-Lived, vanquisher of the feared Lord Voldemort and saviour of magical Britain, Harry Potter, was Sorted not into the House of the Brave and Noble, but instead into the House of Cunning and Ruthlessness, the very same House of his parents’ killer.Immediately, people react. Many fear the rise of another Dark Lord. Some try to take advantage of Harry’s new position, believing that they are superior thanks to the pureness of their blood.Harry shows that he will not be a doormat.The Hat placed him in Slytherin for a reason, after all.With a talented hand and a cold heart, Harry destroys his enemies with not a single ounce of remorse. More and more people fear that his soul has gone dark, except for two.One seeks a fellow lonely soul, born from a desire for companionship in a world that sees her as inferior.The other is far from scared. He is intrigued.Harry Potter is an enigma, a tantalising mystery. And he will stop at nothing to claim him as his own.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Viktor Krum, Marcus Flint & Harry Potter, Marcus Flint/Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom & Luna Lovegood & Blaise Zabini, Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood/Blaise Zabini
Comments: 135
Kudos: 402
Collections: Bottom!Harry, Harry/other OR other/other





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, any characters or related content. Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling, though given how any respect I once had for her has gone down the drain, I really wish Harry Potter was written by Daniel Ratcliffe, Emma Watson and Rupert Grint instead.

The first day of September, 1991.

The seasons had transitioned from the sweltering months of summer, into the beginning of autumn where temperatures began to cool in the slow transition into winter. The green of trees would start to turn a fiery amber, the wind becomes crisper and sharper, and the brightness of the sun grows shorter with each passing day.

Nonetheless, King’s Cross station in downtown London saw no difference in the constant flow of human traffic in and out of the station, boarding trains or alighting from them, meetings in shops, cafés, restaurants, or out in the main concourse areas where all kinds of business and socialising passed between lips.

Amidst the crowds moving, a lone preteen boy of no more than eleven years of age, dressed in worn jeans, trainers, and a dark hoodie with the hood up, made his way down the escalators towards platforms nine and ten.

There does not appear to be anything particularly extraordinary about the boy. Just slightly above the average height for an eleven-year-old, his hood covered his shoulder-length jet-black hair, stylishly-curled. He had a dark-toned almond skin colour, hidden by the shadow cast over his face by the hood. Also hidden by the admittedly-baggy hoodie, was a lean, muscular body sculpted from strenuous physical training in the gym and martial arts. This was on purpose. The boy had an element of surprise if someone underestimated him and attempted anything funny. In his wake, he has left more than a couple of foul individuals behind sporting serious injuries that could potentially become life-threatening if untreated. And he did it all without batting an eyelid.

There was also one feature that was hidden by the hoodie. Starting from his hairline above his right eyebrow, and branching diagonally downwards to his left eye, was a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt, several shades lighter than his almond skin colour. It was this scar that defined this boy in the eyes of a world hidden away from the regular, ordinary citizen.

He was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.

To this hidden world, he is their saviour. He saved their world from total destruction at the hands of a psychopathic, death-denying megalomaniac. He survived a curse no one before or since had ever survived from. In the eyes of the citizens of this hidden world, he was the third coming of Merlin, a wizard so powerful that not even certain death was able to stop him.

Fearing the repercussions of this immense fame and hero-worship brought upon the child and the possible retaliation from the followers of the psychopath whom Harry vanquished, external forces took it upon themselves to determine the saviour’s fate. With Harry’s parents murdered, and disregarding all offers from family friends and allies to take the boy in, Harry was unceremoniously dumped on the doorstep of his mother’s magic-hating, bigoted, racist sister in an unassuming town in Surrey, outside of London.

When questioned, the reason was simple. Keep the boy away from the fame and glory. Have him grow up in an ordinary, family life where the chance of him growing a big head and becoming arrogant from the fame in the magical world is substantially reduced. The boy deserves a normal childhood, safe from the dangers posed by the psychopath’s followers.

That was the official reason. But for the person who dumped Harry on the Muggle doorstep, he had ulterior motives.

He wanted Harry to grow up pliant, starved of love and affection. He wanted Harry to seek out the first source of care and concern he could find – him, naturally. Harry would listen to his instructions (read: manipulations) absolutely and without question. He would fill the boy’s world with Light, the right people who will steer him on his pre-destined path to die, to completely destroy the psychopath of Dark, once and for all.

And for a while, his schemes worked.

Harry suffered under the hands of his relatives for four years. Forced to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs, Harry was essentially a slave to his relatives. He was made to cook and clean for them, and any mistake or question was met with horrific physical abuse. Punches, kicks, slaps and whipping from all manner of objects – books, belts, frying pans, gardening tool, etc. He would be locked in the cupboard for days on end, fed only water so as to not kill him from dehydration.

All for simply being a “freak”, a “n(censored)”, and for doing “freakish” things, like turning a teacher’s hair blue, or somehow teleporting up onto the kindergarten roof when his cousin and goons chased him around in an attempt to beat him into the ground.

Harry bottled up his emotions as the abuse continued. No one would want to help a freak anyway. His very presence was a black mark to the entire town of Little Whinging, the flames of hatred and disdain fanned by his relatives, feeding on the townspeople’s hard-wired racism and xenophobia.

No one came to help, and no one stopped the fuse from burning.

When the spark reached the fuel, it exploded in deadly fashion.

One moment before, his relatives were there, bossing him about in the kitchen. Exactly fifteen minutes later, the once-pristine kitchen had turned into a war zone, and his relatives were all dead.

From there, everything went downhill.

The people of Little Whinging would never see another sunrise again, as an apocalyptic conflagration of hellfire burst from Number 4, Privet Drive, and spread rapidly in the windy night. Gas tanks exploded, fuelling the flames and killing individuals. The town’s fire station was put into action, but despite the firefighters’ best efforts, the conflagration would not be quelled. After all, what was magically-powered fire against measly water?

When it became abundantly clear that the fire not only wasn’t being extinguished, but also growing at an alarming rate, personnel from the fire stations in the neighbouring towns were called in. But even with the additional help, the fire continued to grow, and more lives were inevitably lost. The out-of-town firefighters made the wise choice to book it while they still could. The Little Whinging personnel battled the flames until the very end, when the extreme heat and dwindling oxygen caused the firefighters to drop like flies. Incapacitated, they were sitting ducks for the flames and consumed alive within minutes.

The fire would burn throughout the rest of the night into the subsequent afternoon, when finally, the magic sustaining it dissipated and a blessed storm brought the rain that extinguished the flames. 

Rescue workers immediately swooped in. It quickly became clear that this wasn’t going to be a rescue mission, rather an attempt at a body recovery effort. Of Little Whinging’s population of over five thousand residents, only ten survived. Five of which were a family who were out of town in London when the conflagration broke out, and the other five were the lucky few who managed to escape with their lives. The entire town was razed to the ground, not a single building or house remained. All that was left were smouldering ruins and remnants of a town that was no more.

The complete destruction made national headlines for a whole week. An entire nation mourned the deaths of over five thousand innocent people in what was one of the deadliest man-made disasters in modern history. Strangely, the magical world remained ignorant of the tragedy. Thanks to the manipulations and schemes of a certain man with too many middle names, no one other than him knew where the Boy-Who-Lived was placed. And in his overconfidence and hubris, the man believed that everything was all fine and dandy, blissfully unaware that his schemes had gone up in smoke with the whole of Little Whinging.

It ultimately served Harry well. As his place of enslavement burned to the ground and his tormentors put on a one-way ticket to the lowest level of hell, Harry disappeared into the night, never to be seen for six years.

Back in the present, the Boy-Who-Lived reached the walkway between the two platforms. In front of him, stood a brick colonnade pillar with signs bearing the numbers nine and ten on either end. To most commuters waiting for the train on platform nine or boarding or alighting at platform ten, there was nothing ordinary about this particular pillar, other than it was wide enough for one person and perhaps their trolley.

Harry glanced about. None of the other commuters were paying attention to him, a lone preteen boy staring at a pillar. They were far too wrapped up within their own businesses to care.

Facing the pillar straight on, Harry surged forward. Closing his eyes, he disappeared into the pillar, no one any the wiser.

After six years, the Boy-Who-Lived was about to present himself to the magical world.

* * *

**To Be Continued.**

* * *


	2. A Journey of Recollections and New Directions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry reminisces past memories through his skill with the pencil, as the Hogwarts Express takes him up north to his destiny.

It was a slightly uncomfortable three seconds that Harry underwent as he phased through the barrier separating the Muggle platforms and the magical platform of Nine and Three-Quarters. It felt like he was being squeezed through a bottleneck, though perhaps the residual magic in the air, as well as his own, helped dull the unpleasantness somewhat.

Harry emerged into the light with nare a hair out of place. The magical platform was bustling with activity. Magical folk from all walks of life, dressed in all manner of robes and hats, crowded around in groups or as families. The main attraction, the famous red steam engine known as the Hogwarts Express, stood at-the-ready on the tracks, steam billowing out from the boilers onto the platform. Harry thought idly that the rolling clouds added a layer of mysticism to the magical atmosphere in the air.

The Boy-Who-Lived-in-Incognito took a moment to gaze around and observe the activity taking place. Parents stood with their children, talking, hugging, and seeing off their offspring as they boarded the Express. Porters did their jobs, guiding confused individuals or loading luggage on board the train. A few other adults were either just loitering around or people-watching, appearing to not have much reason to be there. At the other end of the platform, there was a small café with all available tables occupied with people grabbing a quick bite to eat or drink before carrying on with their intended business. Owls flew overhead, and Harry spotted many a cat roaming around the platform, slinking in between people’s legs and sitting atop trolleys as students wheeled them up to the train.

Most conversations overlapped one another, though Harry could easily tell what the hubbub was all about - him. He knew that the bastard who enslaved him to his deceased relatives kept most news about his life in the Muggle world under wraps. But the one detail that he shared freely with the sheep that was the magical population of Britain was that he, Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, was going to attend his first year at Hogwarts on the first of September, 1991.

In fact, Harry spotted many reporters and their camera-people scanning the platform for him, waiting like predators eyeing their prey, anticipating the moment that they would pounce and sink their claws or fangs into him in the form of unethical personal questions that he has no intent on answering.

Not wanting to risk getting seen and mobbed, Harry beelined towards one of the train carriages. With no one any the wiser, he boarded unmolested.

Shutting the door behind him, the noise of the platform deadened down to a more controlled background chatter from students who already bagged compartments for themselves. Readjusting his hood, Harry brisk-walked down the corridor, looking for an empty compartment for himself. He had to go into the next carriage, but ultimately found what he was looking for. 

The compartment was facing the curved brick wall running parallel to the platform, but it had the additional benefit of not being easily visible to the people milling around. Slipping inside, Harry closed the door and locked it behind him. Unzipping his hoodie, Harry fished out his wand. Taking a moment to appreciate the craftsmanship, his mind drifted back to the day his wand chose him.

* * *

_Most ordinary magical folk got their wands at the age of eleven, just before their first year of Hogwarts. The go-to shop was always Ollivander’s, as it had been for centuries. Unlike most people though, Harry went to the famed shop at the young age of eight, letting himself in while the rest of Diagon Alley continued their shopping unaware of their saviour walking amongst them._

_Harry spent the first three minutes browsing through the towering shelves piled to the brim with wands. He didn’t exactly have a firm number to guess the total population of magical Britain, but the young boy could confidently say that this entire shop could supply every magical person in the country with a wand and still have hundreds left over._

_With his attention fixed on the wands, he barely heard footsteps approach him from behind._

_“Is that you, Mr. Potter?”_

_Harry turned around. It didn’t take much to recognise the famed wandmaker himself, Garrick Ollivander. An old man whose prime has long past him, but Harry knew his mind was just as strong as it was during his youth._

_“Yes, Master Ollivander.”_

_“Interesting, really interesting, Mr. Potter,” the wandmaker said softly, “I would not have expected you for another three years. What brings you to my humble shop?”_

_“I have a special request that I hope you can help me with,” Harry replied, straight-to-the-point, “I wish to get my wand early.”_

_Ollivander raised an eyebrow, “An unusual request. Why do you need a wand early, Mr. Potter? I might not be a Seer or have the power of Mage Sight, but you seem to be an extremely powerful wizard, regardless of your young age.”_

_“As a secondary form of defence, Master Ollivander. I have been training diligently in wandless and nonverbal magic for a few years now, but I do not want others to know that. I want to hold the element of surprise should anyone accost me, let their underestimation be their downfall.”_

_The wandmaker was silent for a few moments, before nodding, “A very valid reason, Mr. Potter. However, as we are doing this far earlier than your expected time, there is no guarantee that a wand will choose you today.”_

_“I am willing to take my chances,” Harry replied, “If today is unsuccessful, I will come again, as many times as I have to.”_

_“Very well,” Ollivander said resolutely, “Come with me, Mr. Potter.”_

_First, the wandmaker measured the length of Harry’s dominant arm. Then, Ollivander spent five minutes wandering through the shop, picking out wands for the lad to try. He returned with over a dozen wands, stacked high in his wrinkled hands._

_“Now, let us begin with one of the more uncommon wands. Ten inches, acacia wood and with a core made up of a dragon heartstring. A most unusual wood, never produces magic save for its owner, and withholds their maximum potential from all but the most gifted of magical folk. Try it, Mr. Potter.”_

_Harry took the wand, whereupon it exploded in a ball of fire within a second. It disintegrated into ash in the boy’s hand._

_“Either the wand deems you unworthy, or you are simply too powerful for it to handle,” Ollivander remarked, “Ah well, no matter, let us try again.”_

_He took out another wand, “Here I have a more common-made wand, eleven and a half inches, chestnut wood with a core made up of a unicorn tail hair. Give it a try.”_

_Harry reached for it. However, as soon as his hand came close enough, the wand literally drooped like a dead flower._

_“Nope, not compatible,” Ollivander tossed the wand away, “Perhaps the third time’s the charm, thirteen inches, cedar wood and a core made from a tail feather of a thunderbird. Notoriously difficult to master, but I believe a powerful wizard such as yourself will be able to tame the magic within it.”_

_Harry took it, and gave it an experimental swish. A single, lonely and feeble spark jumped out of the tip, disappearing from sight._

_“A disparity in power,” Ollivander remarked, “This will not serve you well. No matter, we shall continue.”_

_They would end up going through seven more wands, each and every one of them rejecting Harry in many different fashions. Two would do nothing, no matter Harry’s hand movements, three would remove themselves from the mortal plane in explosive manners, and the remaining two simply refused to be handed over._

_It was the tenth wand that proved the most interesting._

_“What I have here is a particularly unusual wand, Mr. Potter. Fifteen inches, blackthorn wood and with a core made from the tail hair of a thestral. Blackthorn is best suited for those who fear no danger and are unyielding against their enemies. To become truly bonded, you will have to overcome great trials together. The core is arguably the most unstable of all known cores that I work with, as it carries the aura of death within it. It is said that for a wizard to fully utilise a wand with such a core, they must have witnessed death with their own two eyes. And even though I am no Seer, I can tell from your irises, Mr. Potter, that you have seen death on a scale unimaginable to the average magical person. Let us then see, if this wand will accept you.”_

_Harry took the wand, and gave it a swish. Immediately, his thoughts dimmed. There was no descent into darkness, just a dimming of light that seemed to find equilibrium between the two natural states of bright and dark. From the tip of the wand, a streak of light burst out, swirled around Harry, shot up, and exploded into a firework of sparkles._

_Ollivander nodded, a small grin on his wrinkled lips, “Yes, we seem to have a match. Granted, it is a tentative match, as you and the wand will need to overcome tribulations over a period of time to completely bond. But I see you having no trouble in accomplishing such a feat, Mr. Potter. I am no Seer, but I can sense that you will go on to do many great things. Whether they are good or terrible is irrelevant, the world can expect many big upheavals spearheaded by you, the Boy-Who-Survived.”_

_It was slight change to the title the magical world crowned him with, but the switch of a single word resonated with Harry. It made more than sense than ‘Lived’. He survived a madman’s attempt to kill him, and he survived his relatives' abuse. Hopefully, with his magic, he will survive what the future had in store for him._

* * *

It had been three years since that day. While they had not gone through any life-or-death situations together, Harry diligently used his wand in his training and learning. He might not be able to completely bond with it yet, but at least he was able to build up what he could describe as a friendship with his wand.

Reaching into his hoodie pocket, he fished out his trunk, and enlarged it. It was one of the largest expandable trunks on the market in Diagon Alley, with seven large compartments the size of bedrooms. Three of the seven were used for books and tomes that he bought from Diagon, retrieved from his family vault in Gringotts, and received as gifts from the goblins. The remaining four were all allocated for two specific items – sketchbooks and self-erasing pencils.

Harry first picked up a pencil and paper from bits and scraps around Number Four, Privet Drive. In a bid to keep their “normality”, his aunt all but forced his cousin to pick up drawing, a “completely normal” hobby to offset the freakishness in her house. His cousin did it for a good run of two days, before deciding that it was not worth his time. Not wanting anyone to notice where all the good drawing blocks and stationary were disappearing to, Harry made do with small pieces and worn-down pencils. Under the cover of night, locked inside the cupboard under the stairs, Harry would sink into his world, doodling and creating little images and scenes based on his memories.

He would draw the abuse his relatives inflicted upon him, and his dreams when he slept. He drew a woman begging for someone’s life, a flash of sickly light, and the screams of a monster as it was vanquished.

Following his relatives’ murder and Little Whinging’s destruction, Harry was free to let his artistic skills develop and blossom like a new flower in the spring. With all the time in the world outside his training and learning, Harry spent a tiny portion of his family’s fortune on sketchbooks and pencils. Over the years, his drawings improved from the childish scrawls and scribbles that made up his enslavement.

It was both a pastime, and a means of grappling with his past.

One does not grow out of years of torment and abuse easily. Harry still had occasional nightmares of the horrid words, the physical agony and pain, the objects barrelling down towards in blows, the hateful faces of his deceased relatives. While he used to flinch at loud noises, shouting and looks of anger, his years of experience dulled such a reaction to the minutest of movement. And he never forgot.

His enslavement may be over, but the memories would always remain.

Harry took to drawing to visualise his memories, drag them into visible view to confront them. Just like a war-torn veteran, he attacked his memories with vengeful precision and power. The stroke of a pencil, and release of carbon lead, represented the metaphorical blood of his enemies spilt over the battlefield.

The completion of an art piece, taking up a single sheet of A4-sized paper, filled Harry with silent satisfaction. It meant that one obstacle (or enemy) had been overcome. Granted, it may return further down the line, but Harry was always ready. Another sheet of paper, and a mechanical pencil was all that he needed to face down the returning enemy and do it away once more.

Stepping back up into the train compartment, Harry sat down, mechanical pencil behind his ear. The sketchbook in hand was half-filled, but he had plenty more down in his trunk, so it wasn’t a big deal for him.

Harry languidly flipped through the pages. Many of his drawings were generic – objects such as weapons, wands, precious stones, still-life scenes, or even open scenery like mountains, lakes, meadows and forests. Occasionally, dark memories punctuated the beautiful art pieces.

Seven pages in, Harry flipped into a scene of fire and destruction. He had never used colour in any of his drawings, but the details were so lifelike, that if colour had been added, the casual observer would believe that they were looking at a photograph, not an art piece.

Harry’s eyelids closed, and the memory resurfaced.

* * *

_Fire._

_Fire was everywhere._

_Harry looked around. He stood in the middle of a street, surrounded by houses that were aflame. The air was blisteringly hot, the night sky lit up by a deathly orange as the entire town of Little Whinging was purged._

_The fires roared with an unholy vengeance, the crackling of the tongues deafening, almost like whips in the wind. Smoke filled the atmosphere, but Harry somehow showed no signs of breathing difficulties. It was as if his freakishness was protecting him from the acrid black plumes of soot and ash that rolled high into the air._

_Beyond the roar of the flames and wind fanning the conflagration, the chaos was punctuated by loud explosions, either from gas tanks or the petrol in cars. They were fodder for the fire, demolishing houses and adding fuel to the carnage._

_But what was perhaps the most damning, but at the same time most beautiful sound to Harry’s ears that night, were the screams._

_It was a twisted, ghoulish choir of human suffering, fear and pain. As the fire spread quickly due to the wind and Harry’s freakishness, the residents of Little Whinging were almost immediately overcome by the flames. Skin blistered and rolled off in layers, exposing nerve-ends and leaving muscle and bone to be burnt away. Very few people died quickly in the conflagration, many more were doomed to agonising death throes that lasted between minutes to an hour. As houses collapsed, those inside became trapped in the rubble, which quickly turned into ovens where the flames and immense heat roasted victims alive. Some were able to escape their burning homes, only to meet their ends from exploding cars, deadly projectiles, or falling electricity poles which electrocuted dozens._

_As Harry passed a burning row of houses near Magnolia Street, he noticed a figure falling out of the second-storey window. Despite the darkness and smoke, he recognised the figure – Mrs. Erica Thompson. She was one of his aunt’s friends, a vicious white woman who was a terrible gossip, and took every opportunity to call him a “filthy n(censored)” whenever they crossed paths. Harry watched as Mrs. Thompson struggled to her feet, her leg clearly broken, and attempted to flee her burning house where her husband and two children were still inside._

_Harry frowned. She was a coward, only wanting to save herself instead of dying with her family. This would not do._

_His freakishness flared. Mrs. Thompson found herself being picked up by an unseen force. The front door opened on its own accord, and the struggling woman found herself being thrown back into her burning house. The door slammed shut behind her, but Harry could still hear her screams as she fell straight into the fire._

_Not more than a minute later, the roof of the Thompsons’ house collapsed. The second storey caved in from the weight of the roof tiles, and a great fireball burst into the air, turning into a mushroom cloud of smoke that further sullied the air over Little Whinging._

_Harry moved on down the street in vindictive silence._

_Unperturbed by the destruction all around him, Harry strolled through the hellscape that was his place of enslavement. Occasionally, he would see individuals running out onto the street, engulfed in flames. They flailed about like out-of-control toys, trying to extinguish the flames that charred their skin and muscles. In a twisted way, it looked like these people were performing a macabre dance. Ignoring their agonised screams, Harry turned on his heel and danced with these stricken individuals, spinning around them and stepping in time to their final minutes._

_When all of them finally dropped to the street, Harry stopped dancing and moved on, leaving their bodies to turn to charcoal._

_Harry would spend another hour wandering the burning streets, witnessing all manner of destruction caused by his freakishness. He saw more people dying, some of them the same children who joined in the bullying and mocking spearheaded by his deceased whale of a cousin. They died horribly, sinful lives cut short by righteous vengeance. Harry had no pity for them; they were narrow-minded, bigoted copies of their parents, after all._

_Finally, with satisfaction and contentment filling his heart and mind, Harry walked away from the conflagration, disappearing into the night as he made the lonely trek to London. It was only several days later, when he gained access to a newspaper, did he learn that his freakishness had caused the deaths of over five thousand people that very night._

_Harry’s only response was to put the newspaper back and focus on finding a place to stay for the night._

* * *

Unlike most memories, Harry’s recollection of Little Whinging’s destruction was always a nostalgic moment for him. In one night, justice was swiftly and brutally served. And far from using that memory as a means of confronting his past, Harry used his photographic visualisation to create haunting scenes of ruin as a means of relaxation.

Many of his sketchbooks, including the one on hand, had drawings of the aftermath of apocalyptic fires. It didn’t specifically had to be based on photographs in newspapers depicting the smouldering remnants of the town, any major fire disaster in known history served as inspiration.

At this precise moment, his muse had returned. Remembering the first photograph in the newspapers taken of the remnants of Little Whinging six years prior, Harry took down his pencil, flipped to a new page, and began sketching what he remembered was the scene that greeted the photographer of what remained of Magnolia Street.

Harry was just adding in the different tones of shading when the shrill screech from the Express’ whistle interrupted his concentration. Even though his compartment wasn’t close to the platform, he could still hear the farewells from those on it as the Express began chugging out of the station. Harry took his wand, and cast a silencing charm around his compartment. With no further distractions, he returned to his drawing, as the Express made its way up north to the Scottish Highlands.

* * *

Harry didn’t just sketch memories, objects or scenery. Sure, while the Express was still in the greater London area, he did sketch snapshots of what he saw outside his window, but once the urban city was left behind and open countryside dominated the landscape, he shifted his focus to people.

Sketching people, admittedly, was the most difficult aspect of drawing, in Harry’s opinion. Unlike the other things that he sketched, people are not uniform or impersonal. Every person he has sketched had their individual, unique quirks, features and details that sets them apart from everyone else. It would be extremely disrespectful if Harry treated these portraits as something that can be made using a cookie-cutter.

His sketches of people were always strangers that he saw in the Muggle world. Men, women, children, everyone in between. He never sketched the goblins, simply out of respect for their privacy. In a way, the disproportionate ratio of more Muggles than magical folk served as never-ending muses for Harry to fill out the pages of his sketchbooks.

An hour passed in complete silence. Occasionally, Harry would peek away from his sketching to see students passing by his compartment. While the silencing charm was still up, judging from the excited looks of these students, and their mouths moving rapidly, it was immediately clear on what their intentions were.

Everyone knew he, Harry Potter, would be on the Express today. Hoping that they could ingratiate themselves to his favour or worm their way into his social sphere, students of all ages searched the entire length of the Express for the famed Boy-Who-Lived. Not one of them gave a glance towards the Muggle-looking boy sitting alone in a compartment.

Until someone did.

Harry was just adding the finishing touches to an ordinary scene where a gay couple were holding hands and gazing out from a bridge, when he felt the entire compartment vibrate slightly from the incessant knocking taking place at the door. Through the glass, a lanky redhead dressed in hand-me-down clothes, with prominent freckles and dirt on his nose could be seen. It was abundantly clear that this boy, probably a new first-year just like him, was not going to go away any time soon.

Suppressing an exasperated sigh, Harry wandlessly unlocked the door and pushed it open.

“What is it?”

“They’re saying that Harry Potter is on the train. Are you him?”

“No I am not,” Harry replied brusquely, “Please leave me in peace.”

Before the redhead could say anything further, the door was shut right in his face, lock falling right into place. With the silencing charm back up, Harry didn’t hear what the redhead muttered as he left, though it wouldn’t take much to know that it wasn’t something flattering.

For another hour, Harry was left undisturbed. More students passed his compartment in their search for the Boy-Who-Lived, unwittingly missing the subject of their clamour. A short lull in activity followed. Harry was halfway through a sketch of a black woman in her late twenties when the compartment vibrated from a second series of knocks.

Looking up, Harry realised it was the trolley lady, with her trolley piled high with all kinds of foodstuff and confectionary. He quickly undid the lock and opened the door.

“Good afternoon, dearie!” the middle-aged woman smiled kindly, “Anything off the trolley?”

Harry levelled her a neutral look, before eyeing the contents available. He never really had a sweet tooth, though he did indulge in the occasional confection every once in a while.

“Do you have anything that is more savoury?”

“We do,” the lady nodded, “We have pumpkin pasties, and a selection of meat pies and pastries.”

“I’ll take five meat pies and two pastries.”

The trolley lady picked out Harry’s order, wrapped them in aluminium foil, and handed them to the boy, “That will be five sickles and three knuts.”

Harry took out a pouch divided into three pockets. He fished out five silver coins and three bronze ones, and handed them over to the trolley lady.

“Enjoy!”

With one last kindly smile, the lady pushed her trolley down the corridor away from his compartment. Harry unwrapped the foil, having a good look at the foodstuffs he ordered. They looked no different than the pies and pastries one could buy from a regular shop in London. He took one of the pies, and took a bite. The slow-cooked beef and juices spread over his palate, prompting a noise of satisfaction. Harry took his time to finish his food, before vanishing the foil. Casting a _Scourgify_ over his hands, Harry picked up his sketchbook to continue his newest art piece.

* * *

Throughout the rest of the journey to the Scottish Highlands, countless more students passed Harry’s compartment in their search for the Boy-Who-Lived. Thankfully, no one attempted to disturb his quiet time, save for one dark-skinned, bushy-haired girl, probably another first-year. But she wasn’t looking for the Boy-Who-Lived, instead she asked if he had seen a toad that belonged to someone named Neville Longbottom. Harry shook his head, and she went on her way.

There was an outlier event where a platinum-blond boy with sharp features, flanked by what Harry presumed were two older students serving as bodyguards, peeked into his compartment, but ultimately moved on down the corridor. Harry only caught the briefest of glances at the trio, but it was more than enough for him to make internal remarks about them.

The blonde, Draco Malfoy, could easily look much more friendly and approachable if he got rid of that cruel, judgemental look that made his face twist into a disgusted ghoul, as if someone stuck a bit of dog’s manure under his nose. And those two brutes…perhaps the idea that they were descended from trolls was not so far-fetched after all.

Harry had no hope for Malfoy, coming from a family who practiced magic with the most ill intent and generations of inbreeding on the delusional belief of keeping their blood pure. For a brief second, he thought about possibilities for the two brutes, until he remembered that trolls were unable to utilise magic.

Still, that did not stop the Boy-Who-Lived from sketching idealised versions of the trio in his pages. Taking away their ills and replacing them with normal decency. It was a pity that they were born and raised in such foul manners, a lot of potential wasted due to backward thinking and foolish decisions.

Harry would spend the rest of the journey sketching. The hours passed, and as the Express crossed the border into Scotland, it was already sun-down. In the dimming light, the compartment lamps were switched on. Even though it was bright enough to still see his sketches, Harry decided to keep his sketchbook and pencil away, as this was a sign that the Express was close to Hogsmeade station.

Half an hour after Harry emerged from his trunk, dressed in a plain set of Hogwarts school robes, the crackly speaker near the ceiling of the compartment came to life, “We are approaching Hogsmeade station. All students, please leave your trunks and belongings on the train.”

The Express slowly cut its speed, and as it rolled into the station, it gave a loud whistle, and a great billowing cloud of steam was released over the platform. The doors swung open, and the students began filing out.

Hogsmeade station was a dark, unremarkable landmark. Lit by only a dozen or so lanterns, students piled onto the platform and began making their way towards carriages helmed by thestrals, which would take them up to Hogwarts. This only applied for second-years and older, as Harry found out quickly enough.

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years! All firs’ years to me!”

A towering giant of a man, with so much hair and beard that they almost covered his face, stood off to one side of the platform, holding a lantern over his head. Through some prior research, Harry recognised the man as Rubeus Hagrid, the groundskeeper of Hogwarts. Already, there was a sizeable crowd of new first-years gathering before Hagrid.

Using the crowd of older students as a shield, Harry slipped to the back of the group, unnoticed by anyone. A few more would join the ranks over the following minute. Hagrid would wait for another minute more, before doing a headcount. Harry’s sharp eyes caught the look of hopeful satisfaction in the groundskeeper’s eyes.

“Ev’ryone here? All firs’ years follow me, and mind the ground!”

The trek down the dark, steep slope was an experience for Harry, mainly in watching some of his fellow first-years slip and slide down the muddy ground. His trainers were new, and had enough traction to keep him from slipping. It was more for a bit of comedic relief, to be very frank.

At the end of the slope, near the edge of what Harry guessed was the Great Lake, was a whole fleet of little boats with lanterns perched on the bows. Beyond the boats was a veil of mist that shrouded everything from several metres onwards.

“No mor’ th’n four to a boat!”

There was a mad rush for the boats, something which Harry never understood. It’s not like someone would be left behind if they didn’t get to the boats first. Especially given how juvenile, say even childish some of the first-years acted in pushing and shoving one another to get into a boat first.

Harry waited until he wouldn’t get trampled over before taking a boat that a girl with honey-blonde hair was already in with another girl whom he presumed was a friend given how close they were.

Hagrid got into his own boat, the biggest of the entire fleet, before commanding, “Forwards!”

Together as one, the fleet of boats pushed off the shoreline with a great rumble. The veil of mist approached, and Harry thanked Merlin that he didn’t wear spectacles, otherwise it would be a complete bitch to clean.

The mist seemed to stretch for a good distance, until it began to dissipate after a few minutes.

Then, came the noises of awe and amazement.

The magnificence of Hogwarts castle stood before them, against the backdrop of the starry, nighttime sky. The windows blazed with the light of the lanterns and torches, and the towering turrets that made up the castle loomed large over the landscape.

Harry, on the other hand, had no such awe for the castle. He had, of course, seen pictures of Hogwarts in the books he had read before. But the overall architecture left a lot to be desired, especially when compared to the Muggle architecture of the Georgian and Victorian periods. Heck, even the _Château de Beauxbatons_ in southern France was on another level that was easily achievable if the magical folk of Britain weren’t as backward as the people were in the Dark Ages.

As the castle drew closer, the boats sailed towards a rocky cavern that ran under the castle’s foundations. Hagrid called out, “Ev’ryone duck!”

A wall of seaweed hung over the entrance to the cavern where the boats were headed. Thankfully, they were mostly dry when the fleet passed under. The cavern was lit by torches, casting an orange glow that allowed the first-years to see a long dock where the boats washed against before coming to a stop. Hagrid got off first, before herding the first-years onto the dock. The groundskeeper bounded up a short flight of stone steps and pounded a large fist on a set of double wooden doors.

They opened, and at the doorway, stood a tall, stern-looking witch with greying hair tied in a tight bun, dressed in green tartan robes that signified her Scottish heritage.

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall, all accounted for!”

McGonagall nodded primly, “Thank you Rubeus, go inside and join the feast.”

The groundskeeper headed in first. McGonagall let him pass, before turning to the first-years, “Follow me.”

She led the first-years into a large entrance hall. Stopping at a much larger set of wooden double-doors, McGonagall turned to the students, many of whom glanced about nervously, unsure of what was about to happen next.

“Good evening students, and welcome to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, deputy headmistress and transfiguration professor. In a few moments, we will be going into the Great Hall where you will be Sorted in one of four Houses - Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Your triumphs during the year will earn you house-points, while any rule-breaking will cost you points. The House with the most points at the end of the school year will win the House Cup. Now, wait here until you are called in.”

With one last no-nonsense, imperious look, McGonagall slipped into the Great Hall, where incoherent chatter echoed for a few moments, before cutting off with the doors closing shut.

The first-years began their own conversation as the minute passed.

Harry stood quietly at the back, making himself invisible. 

“Do you think Harry Potter is really here?” a boy asked an acquaintance.

“I’m not sure, we didn’t see him on the train.”

The conversation quickly shifted towards the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry kept his mouth shut when an unwanted, caustic voice cut in.

“Isn’t it obvious? Harry Potter is dead! He probably died alongside all those filthy Muggles six years ago!”

There was no doubt it was Malfoy who made this confident proclamation. Immediately, the entire group of four-dozen first-years exploded into a heated debate.

“You shut your mouth, you slimy snake!” Harry recognised that voice as from the lanky redhead who came to his compartment on the Express earlier in the day, “There is no proof that Harry Potter died in that fire! Dumbledore said so!”

Harry inwardly groaned. That was one of the worst responses to ever say in a debate over someone’s fate. It only gave Malfoy more fuel to fire back. As the debate grew even more vicious, with a full-blown argument breaking out between the blonde spoilt brat and the redhead, Harry felt someone’s eyes on him.

Glancing to the side, he noticed a slightly-taller black boy with a crew cut giving him a considering look. Harry didn’t recognise the boy, but it was growing increasingly clear that he was coming to a close conclusion. So Harry discreetly raised a finger to his lips, in a gesture to keep quiet about his presence. To his relief, the boy nodded, just as McGonagall stepped back into the hall.

Just like that, everyone shut up.

“We will begin with the Sorting,” she said, “Form two lines, and follow me.”

There was a bit of rush to get into line. Harry took the back with the black boy who agreed to keep his presence invisible.

Once everything was in order, McGonagall pushed open the double doors, and led the first-years into the Great Hall.

In sheer contrast to the revived looks of awe and amazement from his peers, Harry (and the black boy whom he was next to, for the matter) show no sign of being impressed by the sheer scale of the hall. Thousands of candles suspended and danced in fluid motion over the thousands of students and dozen or so staff at the head table. Just like with the rest of the castle, lit torches lined the walls, and four long tables filled the main space of the hall, all lined with students from second-year to seventh. But perhaps the greatest feature that caught almost all the first-years’ amazement was the enchanted ceiling, which was charmed to reflect the sky outside. Amidst the noise, Harry briefly heard someone talk about the ceiling as they have read about it in Hogwarts, A History.

Harry turned his attention away from the hall towards the head table. There, sitting right in the middle in all of his attention-grabbing, flamboyant flair was Albus ‘too-many-fucking-middle-names’ Dumbledore, the bastard who enslaved him to his relatives, and allowed the abuse to carry on for four years.

No doubt, Dumbledore would have realised that something was wrong when Harry’s Hogwarts letter did not say ‘Number Four, Privet Drive’. The manipulative son of a syphilitic harlot would have flown into a panic when he arrived at the site of Little Whinging only to see empty fields with a lone marker memorialising the over five thousand people killed in the blaze of 1985. Evidently, he did his best to keep this out of the Daily Prophet, but it was still no secret that he had lost the Boy-Who-Lived to the upper echelons of magical society and the goblins.

Dumbledore might have gambled on the fact that the Boy-Who-Lived would show up in Hogwarts on this day of first September, but while the foolish man still hoped his weapon would be a pliant and subservient Gryffindor, Harry knew he was going to be in for a rude shock.

Turning away from the headmaster, Harry gazed on the old, dusty wizard’s hat sitting atop an ordinary stool. He was one of the few who weren’t taken by surprise when a face formed on the hat, and it began to sing its annual Sorting song for the whole school to hear. Harry clapped when the Hat was done, as McGonagall unfurled a scroll and began reading names off in alphabetical order.

“Abbott, Hannah!”

Even Harry had to admit that the Sorting itself was mildly interesting. Hannah Abbott and her friend, Susan Bones, were sorted into Hufflepuff. The two goons that followed Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle (which actually surprised Harry, since he was sure they were older) went to Slytherin. The girl who came to his compartment looking for Longbottom’s toad, Hermione Granger, sat on the stool for three minutes before the Hat declared her a Gryffindor. Said Longbottom scion (Harry briefly wondered if his toad was ever found) sat looking absolutely petrified for five straight minutes before the Hat sorted him to Gryffindor alongside Granger. Malfoy (Harry had no expectations there) barely had the Hat touch his head before it shouted “SLYTHERIN!”, whereupon he strutted off to the table of green and silver looking decidedly proud of himself. As the names came down to the Ps, a pair of Indian twins called Padma and Parvati went their separate ways to Ravenclaw and Gryffindor respectively.

And finally, McGonagall called, “Potter, Harry!”

Immediately, the entire Great Hall went as silent as a graveyard.

Harry took a deep breath, and strode up to the stool. The whispers and gossiping followed, with many craning their necks to have a good look at the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry decidedly ignored the look of relief that flittered over Dumbledore’s twinkling blue eyes, and sat down onto the stool. McGonagall placed the Hat over his head, shrouding his vision.

_“Well, well, look who we have here. Harry Potter, dare I say, welcome back.”_

‘I have been back for a very long time already,’ Harry mentally replied back, ‘Some people are just extremely foolish, and you just have the great misfortune of being stuck in the headmaster’s office for three-hundred and sixty-four days out of the year.’

The Hat seemed to chuckle, _“Quite right, Mr. Potter, quite right. But I believe we are going off-tangent. Now where to place you…”_

Silence lingered for about fifteen seconds, which honestly felt like an eternity for the waiting students and staff.

_“You are quite the conundrum, Mr. Potter. Most students I have Sorted usually carried a more dominant trait that would make it easier for me to place them into one of the four houses. You, on the other hand, do not have a dominant trait.”_

‘Either put me in a house where you see fit, or choose the biggest trait that I have.’

_‘Very well then, let’s see…”_

The silence stretched until the first minute, and people were beginning to get restless. Up at the head table, Dumbledore’s eyes were beginning to lose some of their twinkle.

_“You carry considerable nobility, but only for those you respect and trust, which admittedly is very few. The same could be said about your loyalty. Your drive for knowledge and learning almost makes me consider Ravenclaw, but that is just barely overshadowed by your skill in absolute ruthlessness. Yes, I see the deaths of over five thousand bastards under your name. A marvellous show of righteous vengeance, if I may say so myself.”_

‘Have you made your decision?’

_“Yes, indeed I have. People will fear you, Mr. Potter, but I presume that you care not the slightest for that particular fact. Take care, and may your enemies drown in their blood. Better be_ SLYTHERIN!”

* * *

**To Be Continued.**

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there is not much I need to talk about today, other than the fact that I gave Harry his 'Carrie' moment in razing Little Whinging to the ground, which was a brief second of satisfaction for my vengeful muse. Also, I will be turning my focus back to Pokémon for at least until end-January, just a heads-up first.
> 
> Other than that, there is just the usual protocol. Your honest feedback and kudos are greatly appreciated, while any flaming and racist comments will not be tolerated and be reported to the administrators.
> 
> Merry Christmas, and let's hope we have a slightly better 2021.
> 
> \- SilentGhostWriter2017

**Author's Note:**

> So when one of my other Harry Potter stories, Vestiges of Normalcy, came to its conclusion, I received comments from readers about potential future HP stories and pairings, some even suggested a sequel to VoN. While I have appreciated slash ships involving Harry outside of the typical ones (Drarry, Hedric, etc.), I never really had a concrete story plan for any of these ships for quite some time.
> 
> Until now, that is.
> 
> Before we continue on, I would like to give a special shout-out to CraftyWizard86 and izzy tori for suggesting I write a Marcus Flint/Harry Potter fanfic. 
> 
> So let's start with my preliminary thoughts about this story.
> 
> This is my first time writing a Dark-aligned, Slytherin Harry. I have read many stories in the past which have invoked these two traits in one form or another, and almost all go into really dark (pun not intended) territory, especially with everything from Harry's personality, Slytherin politics and hierarchy, Dark magic, the whole lot. As I planned for this story, I didn't know which direction to take, which trait or trope to invoke, or simply let my imagination take over.
> 
> I decided to settle on a compromise. My imagination and trope-invoking will work together to create this story to fruition. Aspects of this story will turn into dark territory, if this prologue and the story tags are any indication. But at the same time there will be heartfelt moments, especially focusing on the relationships. Dark does not always mean evil, after all. 
> 
> On the flip side, I will indulge in the small, vindictive side of my muse by keeping a tally. As of this prologue, Harry's body count stands at 5,264; all but ten of the entire population of Little Whinging. Even though the Dursleys exacerbated it, I do not believe that the entire town was completely blameless when it came to the abusive upbringing Harry was forced to go through. Let me be very clear, that while I do not want to demonise all smaller towns in the UK or anywhere around the world, I feel that it's very likely that Harry would have been the victim of racism in a place like Little Whinging, especially if he had a different skin colour in a town that is virtually homogenous. And given how vengeful Harry was when his fuse exploded, any slightest transgression would have been met with hellfire.
> 
> That being said, while racism will be explored in this story, any racism in the comments section will not be tolerated. Just like my standard warning for any flaming, any racist comments will be deleted upon discovery and the sender will be reported.
> 
> If you have honest feedback and kudos, by all means send them. I sincerely appreciate any reviews or advice to make my writing and stories better, and your valued thoughts and opinions mean the world to me.
> 
> That's all from me for now. Let's hope we can go off on a good start for this story!
> 
> Take care everyone, and happy reading.
> 
> \- SilentGhostWriter2017


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